


A Laugh For A Lifetime (Together)

by LaShaRa



Series: Snapshots [1]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Marriage, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 11:29:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9179653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaShaRa/pseuds/LaShaRa
Summary: Mick loves good photographs, especially those that involve him and Len and/or fire. Len loves them too, for all that he snarks about mug shots and autographs every time someone points a camera at him. And Lisa just loves them because more often than not they make her big brother blush while Mick laughs and that is always, always a delicious sight. A series of one-shots based on ColdWave photos from various sources. Some AUs, some canon, and a ton of wish fulfillment.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nirejseki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/gifts).



> Welcome to my attempt to give us all something else to think about than the current hot mess that is DC's Legends Of Tomorrow! Since I'm royally pissed about Len's death/the team's mistreatment of Mick/the general blehness of the whole thing, expect canon divergence. Also randomness. Also much fluff. I think we all need some fluff. Anyway. Enjoy!

“Snart, where are the hell are my fucking keys?” Mick roars.

“Well, I’m not the person to ask, Mick, seeing as I’m never allowed to drive the car,” drawls Lenny, appearing in the kitchen doorway, his mouth still half full of the pancakes which Mick had made, thank him very much. “That’s because you drive like my granny!”

“Mick, your grandmother probably rode some form of old nag, depending on how godforsaken that farm you grew up on was -”

Mick ignores him in favour of striding out of the living room he’s just trashed and down the hall to the bedroom. He trips over the pants Lenny was wearing last night – or not, if you get picky and count the actual seconds – swears, then pauses. He scoops up the pants and turns them upside down – he’s always said Lenny’s part magpie, always lifting whatever shiny things anyone around him has on them. Objects thump and clink to the floor – wallet, wallet, lock picking thingamajigs, one of Mick’s spare lighters, wallet, wallet – Jesus, he just can’t help himself, the light-fingered little bastard – 

“Mick.” Lenny’s voice is moving down the hall. “Mick, you better not be doing what I think you’re doing -”

Thunk. Clink! Ha! Lenny’s wallet lands face down amidst the dozen or so strangers’ wallets scattered around Mick’s feet, and Mick’s keys land on top of it. Mick stoops to reclaim them, and also to maybe cram some of Lenny’s things back in his wallet before he gets in here, because damn if Lenny isn’t a picky bastard about people messing with his stuff, never mind all the things he said he’d let Mick do last night – 

His fingers turn over something thin and square and smooth-edged and he stills.

Lenny enters the room at a deceptive saunter, pancake crumbs around a mouth that’s already curling distastefully at the edges. “Mick, we’ve talked about this. Just because I let you get in my pants doesn’t mean you can get in them, per se -”

“You carry it around,” Mick rumbles, cutting him off. Something warm and complete is unfurling in his chest, better than the fire, still able to make it hard to breathe, even after thirty-odd years.

Lenny blinks. “What?”

Mick holds it up and suddenly Lenny doesn’t seem to know where to look. It’s an adorable expression on his face, one Mick hasn’t often seen since Lenny hit twenty or so. The black and white photograph has been taken from next to Len, so it catches him in profile, with Mick facing the camera as he drives, a window blurring behind him in a manner which suggests that he’d been going maybe thirty miles per hour faster than Lenny was comfortable with. But as he recalls, Lenny hadn’t been uncomfortable about much that day, which was as remarkable as anything else about it. He remembers the bright, almost manic blue of the sky, how he’d tossed his jacket in the truck bed despite Lenny’s protests, rolled up his sleeves and popped a good four buttons on his shirt, at which point Lenny’s protests had abruptly stopped. Lenny himself was wearing the works, a sleek white jacket which Lisa had got tailored for him and a tie striped in icy shades, buckling the seatbelt carefully over his outfit while Lisa declared him an absurd Victorian fuss bucket, whatever the hell that was, from next to the window. But Lenny hadn’t even responded to her insults; he’d been looking down at his hands, tracing the wide silver ring that had been transferred from his pinky to the finger next to it. Mick doesn’t remember what it was exactly that had made Lenny laugh – perhaps it was something to do with Lisa punching out a (criminal) witness with her bouquet when they suggested Lenny hold it so that the bride could take her place; with Lisa, it was equally possible that she’d taken offense at the general obliviousness to her brother’s shining face, or that she simply loved that bouquet very much. All he knows is that Lenny laughed, a loud, happy sound, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his lashes sweeping down to almost touch his cheek, and there had been no question of whether Mick would take his eyes off the road to laugh with him. 

Looking at that photo now, Mick’s reminded of how he felt the day he realized that he’d never stop looking at Lenny like that, the day he realized that against all odds, the fire wasn’t going to be the only thing that could make him laugh like that. Because the flames couldn’t laugh the way Lenny laughed. The flames couldn’t look at him the way Lenny was looking now, shyness and embarrassment and defiance all jumbled into one mix that was him and him alone. 

“You been carrying this ever since?” Mick asks, when it becomes obvious that Lenny, chatterbox though he is, isn’t going to break the silence on this one. The wallet is new, in the sense that it’s something Lenny lifted about a week ago and fancied for himself, while the photograph is a little weathered, a little worn, like it’s been turned over countless times by a set of slender fingers. 

Lenny blushes just a bit – it’s glorious – and nods.

They know what that means, both of them. Lenny’s never been keen on getting caught, even less so since that whole time travelling shit storm, so it follows that he’s not keen on keeping mementos that can help anyone accomplish that. Mick, Lisa, the latest version of the cold gun and the ring on his fingers – those were about the only things that Lenny wanted around him on a permanent basis. As for the rest, the less personal shit he had, the easier it was to up and go and be half a country away by morning. Mick used to be the same – whatever he had burned in the end, after all – but lately he’s been taking more trouble with the safe houses, adding little touches that belong to them, an alphabetically organized DVD rack for Lenny’s stupid nerd shows here, a gold-themed nest for Lisa there. But he’d never gone as far as printing photographs and carrying them in his wallet. The Lenny of twenty years ago would have thrown the mother of all bitch fits at that.

But that was then and this is now.

The car keys clink back to the floor as Mick hauls Lenny into his arms and kisses him long and deep. Lenny melts into him, clinging to the front of his shirt, and Mick tilts his head back against the hand that isn’t still clutching the photograph and kisses him some more. When they break apart, Lenny’s cheeks are flushed and his eyes are hazy, but he manages to ask, “What was that for?”

Mick bumps noses with him. “Thank you.”

Lenny’s eyes soften a bit and this time he kisses Mick, lips gentle. He tastes of the pancakes Mick made and his own terrible attempt at non-machine made coffee and gentle does not last very long. “What do you say to moving this somewhere more comfortable than this pile of damn wallets?”

Lenny smirks. “I thought you were going out.”

Mick slots the photo carefully back into Lenny’s wallet, puts it on top of the dresser, and turns to Lenny with a smirk of his own. “I got everything I need right here.”

They have pancakes for dinner too. Lenny doesn’t complain. Mick is smug.

A few days later, Mick wakes up to a hand dipping down the collar of his shirt, tugging ever so carefully at the new chain around his neck. He pretends to be still asleep as his listens to the little click as the heavy, square locket at the end of it unlatches, and Lenny’s sudden intake of breath. After a few minutes, the latch clicks shut, and Lenny slides the locket back down his shirt. He settles back down next to Mick, snuffling into his side the way he used to years and years and years ago, in a too small cell in a juvenile detention facility far away from here.

Mick smiles and goes to sleep for real.


End file.
